


The Virtuous Woman

by Celesma



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel True Forms, Gen, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:00:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celesma/pseuds/Celesma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There's a clarity to Bee's thinking now, a sharp sanity that she'd never before possessed while in the pit. And she's aware of other things, too: the smell of damp wood, the gritty texture of dirt... the notable absence of any blood. If this was supposed to be some new punishment of Alastair's – a ruse to trick her into thinking she'd escaped, to give her false hope – it's a very poor one. The patron saint of butchers should very well know by now that she can't feel anything that even remotely approaches hope.</i> </p>
<p>A canon-divergent rewrite of Lazarus Rising, in which Bela is the righteous mortal of prophecy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Virtuous Woman

**Author's Note:**

> So, once upon a time I had the crazy idea that I was going to write a Righteous Woman AU where Bela is the one Cas rescues from hell, Dean is a demon, and Sam/Bela is a thing (cracky pairing is cracky BUT I LOVE THEM OKAY). Then I remembered that I always seem to run out of steam about a third of the way through these kinds of lengthy narratives, but I still wanted to at least get the beginning down on paper (or the Internet, or whatever). I really really love Bela and was bummed by her exit from the show and so this was, in part, a way to exorcise my injured feelings while exploring the unique dynamic she brought to the cast of Supernatural. Ah Bela, we hardly knew ye.

_She'd always been Daddy's little girl._

_Bee holds the knife in her hands for the first time, shifting it from one palm to the other, testing its weight – a gesture as pointless as it is showy; thanks to the blade's long acquaintance with her insides, she is intimately familiar with its every detail, every curve and contour and texture, and weight is no exception – and looks to the shifting pillar of smoke on her right, as if for guidance. The smoke urges her forward, encourages her with the sinuous coiling motion of its limbs, massive appendages that terminate in clawed, boulder-sized fists._

_Your Daddy is here, it says. Your Daddy is here and he is waiting and you have the knife. You are ripe, my darling, you are ready, and_ _**it is time.** _

_The smoke's voice grows loving at the last; and that decides it for her. She steps forward and brandishes the knife, no expression at all on her face. She wears the pretty yellow frock of a young girl, ripped and barethread from when Daddy could not control himself. When she fought against the natural appetites of a grown man and lost._

_Forty years, she thinks. Yes, I do believe it's time._

_She approaches Daddy on the rack. He returns her impassive gaze with bared teeth and wide, feral eyes. Even now, he is still hungry._

_Do it then, love. It's why we're here, isn't it? Because you couldn't bloody well be happy with your lot? Do it. Because tomorrow, you mewling little bitch,_ _**I'll** _ _be the one with the knife._

_Bee continues to look at him, then raises her blade. She knows that what happens next can bring her no satisfaction – the freedom she now enjoys from the rack is not really freedom at all, not after forty years – but everyone is telling her that this is what she must do; and she is still, after all, Daddy's little girl._

_She plunges the knife into his heart –_

* * *

A heartbeat later and she is awash in darkness. Bee cries out with terror, only to find that she can't draw full breaths; her chest feels like it's full of stones, stones that are crushing her lungs, and the cramped sensations in her arms and legs seem to indicate that she's been wedged into a tiny space. She blinks rapidly, tries to move her head, but it's the same story all over: darkness and walls. Bee suppresses a sob. Surely Alastair couldn't have decided to start getting creative _now_ , not after forty years of the same thing –

She continues to feel her way around the oppressive space; and it's a simple matter, in spite of her blindness, to realize that she's in a box somewhere beneath the earth. Very likely, then, that this is Alastair's handiwork. Bee doesn't even have the capacity to feel despair; such a novel emotion was destroyed somewhere around the fourth or fifth time her _(Daddy)_ father came to her on the rack. Her emotional vocabulary consists of two words now, and those words are _terror_ and _pain_.

But there's a clarity to her thinking now, a sharp – well, _sanity_ – that she'd never before possessed while in the pit. And she's aware of other things, too: the smell of damp wood, the gritty texture of dirt... the notable absence of any blood. She feels her body with trembling fingers – no longer is she wearing that horrible strapless dress her father fancied, but a simple shirt and trousers that smell newly laundered. Her skin is amazingly whole, untouched. If this _is_ some new punishment of Alastair's – a ruse to trick her into thinking she'd escaped, to give her false hope – it's a very poor one. The patron saint of butchers should very well know by now that she can't feel anything that even remotely approaches hope.

She continues to fumble about in the darkness. Somehow, through some hidden store of knowledge that she can't even begin to understand the origins of, she knows that she will find a lighter on her person. Bee fishes it out of the pocket of her trousers, snaps it open. Through its sporadic, flickering light she can just make out the general shape of the walls. The wood appears to be rotting; she thinks that one good punch or kick might be enough to make it yield. Bee snaps the lighter closed and replaces it, then makes a fist.

She doesn't know why, even after everything – the eternal Promethean cycle of rape and death and resurrection – she should still want to save herself. Her parents, Alastair, the other denizens of hell... they'd effortlessly convinced her that she was the kind of person who belonged there. Who'd led an empty, even loathsome existence. What was the point in going back to all that, even if through some cosmic filing error she really _had_ ended up back on the earthly plane?

She hasn't a clue. Instead she hammers her fist against the wood, digs furiously through the resulting downpour of dirt, like a death row prisoner tunneling her way towards sweet and totally unmerited freedom. 

* * *

Bee stares at the small wooden crosses marking the two graves in the desert sand – one of them furnished with a decaying bouquet, the other disturbed from sand displacement and claw-like fingernail marks, like the aftermath of a one-woman zombie uprising – the gears in her mind coupling and uncoupling with disbelief. Even as her vision swims and the picture's details grow furry, the knowledge of what she sees remains clear; the truth, unmistakable.

Someone had buried her.

Correction: someone had _cared enough_ to bury her.

Ridiculous.

She can't imagine who might have been interred next to her; there's no name anywhere on either of the small grave markers here. For that matter, where is _here_? Could this barren desert be the same place she'd died in? It would be helpful if she remembered anything at all about her past life, but every detail – save that of her father's private enjoyment of her body – eludes her. For several moments she just stands there and blinks slowly, inhaling the clean dry air, appreciative of the silence and the openness even if she can't really enjoy it. The sun hangs high in the sky like a blistered eyeball, and by her estimation it must be mid-afternoon.

_Mid-afternoon. Teatime._ She giggles and the sound almost makes her scream for its sheer mirthlessness. Shaking the remaining crumbs of dirt off of her body, Bee chooses a direction at random (still feeling guided, somehow, by those mysterious knowledge reserves) and begins shuffling her feet forward, like a living puppet struggling to walk without strings.

* * *

The desert's not a desert at all.

This realization sinks into her upon a growing thread of disquiet. As she draws closer to... wherever it is she's supposed to be going (the strange sense of psychic magnetism hasn't receded, not even after three hours of walking), she sees trees. _Flattened_ trees. Trees whose bare and blackened trunks are gathered in smashed piles, as if they'd been uprooted and blown away by the world's most tumultuous tornado, then ravaged by equally severe brush fires. At length she sets upon something resembling a road, and the path is obstructed by hundreds of the things. She walks parallel to the road, eyeing them as if the monster responsible – for only a supernatural creature could have caused such wanton destruction – might rise from their corpses, make her its next target.

All of this has something to do with her appearance here today. She's growing steadily more possessed of the conviction that this _is_ earth, not hell, but she can't form any kind of coherent picture from the disparate information she's been given so far.

The ambiguity frightens Bee. At least in hell, you knew exactly what to expect.

Something familiar and man-made arises in her line of sight, protruding from the distant horizon like an excavated ruin. And a good thing, too, as night is coming on in just a few more hours. Bee doesn't relish the idea of spending the night out here, cold and alone and possibly stalked by predators (or the aforementioned monster). When she's close enough that the thing starts to resolve into an identifiable land marker, she begins to run towards it. Stationary cars, oil pumps, a sign with fading red paint advertising DIESEL AND FOOD – it's a gas station. More than that, though, it's where that strange kismetic pull seems to terminate; it is where she's meant to be.

Despite the presence of cars, not a single living soul is to be found in the vicinity. Bee can see no reason that a gas station would be abandoned during daylight hours, and her sense of unease grows even more pronounced. She peers through one of the filthy windows and is marginally gratified to find that the establishment has been fully serviced and stocked. She tries to gain access through the front door, but it's locked. Seeing no other way in, she goes back to the window and smashes the glass. She hopes the owner really _is_ gone for the day and hasn't just retired for an extra-long lunch break, although another part of her thinks she would greatly prefer the company.

Once inside, her gaze is drawn to the freezers set along the store's back wall, bearing rows of bottled drinks behind frosted panes of glass. The sight of such prompts her to realize, quite suddenly, that she is thirsty. Painfully, desperately thirsty. Hell had lived up to its reputation in more ways than one – there'd not been a drop of anything to drink there, excepting her own blood, _running in a crimson slick from her own suppurated and weeping flesh, while Mummy looks on and barks shrill laughter, her yellowing fingernails filed to points like shark's teeth_... Bee issues a dry sob at the memory, and for a moment the mental fog so emblematic of her time in the pit rises to claim her, like scum floating to the surface of a pond. A few minutes later it clears, but she is considerably shaken for the experience, and for a moment she can't move at all, can't do anything but try to push down the guttural animal noises threatening to tunnel up her throat.

The parched feeling persists, in spite of all that. She gathers her remaining wits and heads straight for the freezer, seizing bottle after bottle without bothering to check labels. She drinks and drinks and drinks and it seems that her thirst will never be slaked, even as she drains three, five, eight bottles... she only stops when one of them yields a bitter and acrid flavor – she'd accidentally got a bit of beer in her – and she struggles not to choke on the stuff. She thinks she might suddenly vomit and scrabbles madly for the toilet, but it turns out she's only got to pee. After relieving herself, she washes her face and hands while taking note of the reflection in the mirror. A living corpse stares back at her, its eyes and cheekbones possessed of a queer, hollowed-out appearance. Instead of being horrified, however, she figures it's appropriate – she _did_ just crawl out of her own grave today.

(The one thing that _does_ scares her is the distinctly human hand-shaped mark burned in her skin, marring an otherwise pale and unremarkable shoulder. No matter how much she scrubs away at the thing, it won't come off.)

When she emerges from the lavatory, ten minutes later, her body feels much more agreeable but for the intermittent cramps in her belly. She fetches a newspaper and a cellophane-wrapped pastry and sets about the absurd task of recreating a day in an ordinary English person's life. She opens the newspaper, scans the day's events.

The date is September 18, 2008 and the place is Pontiac, Illinois. _What was I doing in the States?_ she wonders with mild puzzlement, but her mind is – predictably – not forthcoming with any answers. She runs through the rest of the news stories, but there's nothing strange or noteworthy there. Certainly, nothing about the dead returning to life and evacuating the local burial grounds. Dissatisfied, she grabs a satchel from a nearby rack – one of a number of road trip souvenirs proclaiming insipid messages like I HEART PONTIAC and GET YOUR KICKS ON ROUTE 66 – and stuffs the rag inside, along with more drinks and a small arsenal of sweets. She looks at the cash register, sees it hasn't been equipped with any security measures – the place didn't even have any _cameras_ for heaven's sake, something she'd noticed through long force of habit _(...what habit?...)_ the moment she'd stepped inside – and she finds she has no particular qualms about relieving it of every scrap of coin it's got.

_This is definitely the maddest gas station I have ever been in... I think._ She isn't one to complain, however. As evening is drawing near, Bee supposes that now would be a fine time to go to sleep, while the place is still empty and she can be assured of having a roof over her head. She takes a man's camouflage-patterned jacket to crawl under for warmth, considers a moment, then fetches the radio sitting by the cash register and sets it down on the floor next to her, switching it on to an easy listening station, keeping one ear alert for any breaking news stories about zombie people. A moment later she curls up into as comfortable a position as she can manage, wondering what she will do in the morning.

Waiting until the store owner shows up to shoot her or have her arrested is obviously out of the question. So, also, is reaching out to the cops for help; not only would they be completely lacking in the useful occult knowledge department (unless they were demons, which is another problem she's going to have to figure out at some point – she's pretty sure that, being one of Alastair's favorite pets, they'll be wondering what she's doing topside, and alter their behavior accordingly), she shares no particular love for authority figures. She wishes sorely that she still had her memory, if only to know who she could call for help.

Or, just maybe, there _isn't_ anyone. Maybe she really was the evil bint they told her she'd always been in life, burning bridges left and right, hurting anyone who may have taken more than a passing interest in her well-being. Maybe she was completely without allies, completely without friends. Completely alone.

That sounds right.

* * *

A quarter of an hour passes before something happens.

She's just drifting off into a fitful sleep, her unconscious creeping up to the border of a terrifying dream – the memory of her mother and father _(Mummy and Daddy Mummy Daddy please stop stop stop)_ having their way with her, drawing a web of blood across her bare thigh in a display of savage, voyeuristic glee – when the images are driven away by the onset of total silence. Bee opens her eyes. Dappled early-evening light filters down through the windows, glancing off of the store displays and creating a curious little shaft of light in which dust can be seen flying, like so much debris in the wind. For a moment she doesn't understand why the silence should make her come awake like that... but then she gets it.

The radio is off.

_The batteries died. Nothing dodgy about that. You can't go to pieces at every bloody little thing, Bee, you just can't –_

The windows start rattling and she immediately abandons that line of thought. As if beset by an angry poltergeist, the entire building shakes on its foundations, postcard racks crashing to the floor in a fluttering heap and shotglasses bearing the image of the Route 66 shield exploding into shards. A nearby television comes alive with static. The radio turns on again, this time emitting a high-pitched screech – white noise not unlike the imperceptible tones of a dog whistle – and somehow it is this last detail that instantly strikes terror in her heart.

_It's Alastair. He's come back for me. This was always hell. I never left. I never left. I never –_

She huddles deeper underneath the jacket, cowering, not understanding that the truth is something far more wonderful and terrifying. The white noise and the static and the whine resolve into a single bell-like tone of blinding agony – sound so palpable it can be _seen_ – and that sound hammers the insides of her skull, ripping her brain apart with fingers both strong and unconcerned, so that she is soon screaming out a plea for mercy, a plea that is nevertheless completely indistinguishable beneath the deafening tenor, threatening to smash her into millions upon millions of tiny atoms –

_Please, please,_ she begs the thing making the sound, the Presence, _go away, go away, I didn't do anything to you –_

_Abby,_ the Presence says, and everything goes black.

* * *

A moment later – or maybe not a moment, but an eternity – she's awake again. She is still hidden underneath the jacket, but it's pointless to pretend that anything has changed. That strange and terrible light has faded, but it still clings to her retinas like a filmy cataract. Moreover, the air seems to taste – _electric_ – somehow, charged with a supra-magnetic force, as though it too has moved beyond the realm of human understanding.

She knows that the Presence is waiting for her to come out, waiting for her to stand and acknowledge It. She only wants to withdraw inside herself and pretend this is all part of her nightmare, but the inner well of truth demands that she not hide her face from this; to do so would be more cowardly than to pick up a razor against the most blameless soul in hell. Fighting against the designs of every molecule in her body, Bee abandons the shelter of the jacket and rises on wobbling legs, carefully shielding her eyes.

_Look at me, Abby. As I wish to look at you._

_That's not my name_ , she tries to say, but the words are stuck and instead she's opening her eyes. At first she sees nothing but white, but then an intense pain – so intense, in fact, that her eyeballs feel like they must burn out of her skull – slices through her, and she clutches her head. She doesn't look away, though, _can't_ look away, and soon the crawling lines of the figure standing before her begin to still, begin to form a picture, and she _sees_.

The side of the store that the Presence occupies is gone, blasted away – or, more likely, simply felled like a tower of lego bricks, brushed aside by the luminous black wings that span either direction as far as the human eye can see, completely obscuring every remaining speck of the sky. As Bee struggles to take in this impossible sight, she's suddenly granted a mental snapshot of the Presence's bulk: a serpentine body of Ouroboros-esque proportions, encircling the gas station like a predatory animal, and _I'm the rat, I know it, It's here to kill me_. She backs away and the small of her back fetches up against the counter. She wishes she had a gun, the military-grade kind that shoots down helicopters. Or, barring that, a bomb.

The Presence moves forward, easily closes the distance between them. _I'm not going to hurt you._ It gazes at her with inquisitive eyes – all three thousand or so of them. They blink in rapid, disjointed succession, a collection of blue and green and brown and violet and hazel swimming through a slow-moving ocean of flame, surrounding a large featureless mask (presumably Its face, if It had one), and occasionally parting in places to reveal beautiful marbled skin.

_Beautiful?_ Was that a word that could be used to describe this Creature? Yes, she believes it could. "Please go away," she says again, but the words are merely rote at this point. "Why are you here?" she adds, and she feels absurdly proud for the new strength in her voice, even if she's not asking the right questions, like _What in God's unholy creation are you?_

_I was the one charged with guarding and guiding you. It wasn't my intention to leave your side so soon, but I was called away to battle. The seals are being broken one by one, and all of the Host have been called to fight. I left instructions upon your heart to come here because it was safe. But I'm here now to collect you, Abby._

"Why do you keep calling me Abby? I'm not Abby. I'm Bee."

The flames burn brighter with the Presence's consternation, and her chest locks up with fear, but it's not aimed at her. _What do you remember?_ It asks, impatiently.

"I remember... hell. I remember my Da – father, and my mother. I remember Alastair. They – did things to me there." Probably none of it means anything to the Presence, but It makes a gesture with Its claws – huge gleaming things, each half the size of a car – that seems to convey understanding.

_I see. I should have expected that the taint of hell would still be upon you. Your soul is smoldering with it._

And then the Presence does something truly horrible. It extends one of Its claws, reaches out to touch her. Bee's first instinct is to shudder away, but in fact she doesn't do anything at all. Even as the iron-clad certainty suddenly springs into her mind that nothing and nobody in her life had ever touched her without the intention of harming her, she remains stock-still and waits for the inevitability of pain, of fear and degradation.

_Your name is Abigail Donna Talbot. Remember that, and the rest will come._ It touches the tip of Its claw to her throat, and pain _does_ come – of a sort. It isn't physical, but instead a mental razor tearing through the thin and fragile membrane of her outer awareness. A medley of seemingly disparate, yet irrevocably interconnected images marches through her mind, and Bee

_(Abby)_

_(Bela)_

cries out from the resulting shockwaves. The memories slam into her as if borne on a fast-approaching tsunami wave; she wants to run from them, run and hide, the way she ran from Daddy

_("Daddy's going to read you a bedtime story now, little Bee – ")_

_("I can take care of them for you. And it won't even cost you anything, for ten whole years – ")_

and the accompanying emotions they inspire in her. She can _feel_ again, and it's so unpleasant, like bugs crawling around under her skin, sampling the slop of her internal organs; and she wants it to stop, and she wants it to stay, and in the end she doesn't really know what she wants. She wants to weep; to mourn; to murder; to hope; to feel joy and rage and terror and despair and all the things in between. She wants to live and be happy; she wants to die and be forgotten. More than anything, she wants to stop remembering

_(Dean and Sam)_

_(Bobby)_

_(Lilith)_

_(the Colt)_

_("So you know the truth about what's really going on out there, and this is what you choose to do with it? You become a thief?" – "No. A_ _**great** _ _thief – ")_

A thief, then. Nothing but a thief. And before that, a child who'd agreed to have her parents "taken care of" at the behest of a demon, never knowing that that would mean their execution, or that she herself would be thrown into hell when her ten years' reprieve were up (and she may _say_ she's not guilty, may even _believe_ she's not guilty, but that doesn't change the truth). A person who'd endangered everyone around her, betrayed over and over again: and all to preserve a life that was, by all rights, not worth saving.

Her. Bela Talbot.

She's only able to separate herself from the chain of memories when she feels a ponderous shifting movement across her throat; satisfied that Its goal has been accomplished, the Presence is now withdrawing Its claw. Without thinking, she raises her hands and touches them to the lacquered surface, like a child seeking comfort from an older sibling, feeling veins of electricity crackling underneath, surging up through Its towering form to supply energy to the manifold wings. "Please," she whispers, even as she anticipates nothing but more rejection, or maybe to be blasted to ashes on the spot.

No more than she deserves.

The Presence hesitates for the space of a breath, and she senses confusion skittering over the surface of her thoughts, like It hasn't been given any instructions for moments like these and doesn't know what It should do. Bela presses her forehead to the mirrored surface, feeling that insane power thrum in her like blasphemy, and finally it gives beneath her, like arms opening to catch and enfold her. She senses a second claw descend behind her, brush lightly between her shoulder blades: a whale attempting to exert the force of a tadpole. It is a patently awkward attempt to console, and Bela thinks she will laugh.

Instead, she cries.

Her tears are subdued, but they are there. Bela raises a hand to wipe them away, but the tip of the talon at her back rises and taps her head, as if in gentle reprimand. So she leans her entire body against the curve of the claw and weeps, quietly. It feels good. She's never been able to do that before, not even in hell. The pulse of electricity dulls to a soothing patter, drawing her into a deeply relaxing sense of security; and for no reason at all she thinks of how she had always wanted a brother, growing up. Someone to tease her, assuage her loneliness... protect her.

But she knows better now. She _remembers._ The torments of hell, the torment of her childhood... good things can't last. Not for her. Having foolishly opened herself up like this, it will only be a matter of time before her trust becomes her undoing. Cold certainty pushes out the remaining vestiges of peace, winds through Bela's guts with the sinuosity of a snake. (And what an appropriate image, given what she is: a lying snake, a fatal poison, _Belladonna_ , Bela Talbot. The identity is coming back to her now, not like a new suit of clothes she's had yet to get used to, but like the reawakened sensations of her own skin after coming out of an anesthesia-induced fog. She has always been here. She always _is_.)

(It's also how she knows: she can't be forgiven. Not for anything she's done.)

She pushes herself off of the talon and takes several steps backward. "Clear off," she says coldly. "I'm not buying what you're selling."

_Abby._

There's hurt in Its tone. Bela suppresses a wince; she has recognized that exact cadence, that exact note of injury, in so many others before the Presence. "My name is Bela. And I told you to leave. Now."

_You are needed, Bela. There is work required of you. Work that only you can do._

"And I don't want it! I don't care what you need me for. I don't even care if you're the one who dragged me out of hell! I don't want you here. Go away. Leave me alone! _Leave me alone_!" She clutches her head, which aches in protest against her rising hysteria. She finds perverse liberation in being able to wail like a child, even as she despises herself, almost wishes she _could_ be dragged back to the pit. "Leave me alone! Leave me – "

A trailer of wind crashes against her, like a giant releasing a held breath; and when Bela opens her eyes, the Presence is gone. Not a single sign that the scene was ever disturbed remains; the wall is back in one piece, there's no freaky light, and the air has assumed a decidedly non-numinous ambience. Even the pain in her head is gone, and a song by Fleetwood Mac exhorting the listener to tell lies is playing on the radio. "A dream," she says aloud, sinking to her knees, feeling a queer cocktail of overwhelming relief and bitter disappointment.

The full moon dangles in her sight like a severed head, drawing slanting bars of light across her forehead. She must have been asleep for several hours. Bela is quick to accept this theory of events. Well, if there was one good thing the machinations of her dreaming brain had accomplished, it was helping her get reacquainted with who she _really_ was. She bloody well wasn't some cute little insect, subject to the appetites of a world that had never given a shit about her. When you came right down it, she was Bela Talbot: bombshell burglar and procurer of occult items. And she would fucking well get to the bottom of this mystery, even if it killed her (again).

She lies down and pulls the jacket back over herself, already drawing up plans for the morrow. She thinks it might be time to pay Bobby Singer a visit. When she wakes up, the Presence is nothing more than a half-remembered dream, dancing at the edges of her consciousness.

* * *

Bela supposes she can't really complain when, the moment Bobby opens his door to find her standing on his porch, two days later, he pulls out a knife and bull rushes her.

"For Christ's _sake_ , Bobby – " Bela hisses once and sidesteps out of the arcing path of the knife; she hadn't exactly expected him to set out the welcome mat for her, but getting stuck like a goose had certainly _not_ been on that week's agenda. "It's _me_ , okay? I'm not a demon – "

"Yeah, and I'm friggin' Casper the Friendly Ghost!" Bobby isn't having any of it, obviously. They play tag for a few more seconds until Bela finally whips out a gun – an additional souvenir filched from the owner of the gas station – and the old sod pulls up short, glaring at her with effusive disbelief.

"I. Am not. A demon," she snarls, and something in her tone and bared teeth seems to give him genuine pause. "And I'm not anything _else_ , either. I'm just me. Bela." _God_ , does it feel refreshing to say that. "Use any test on me that you like. I promise you, I'll play nice."

He glares at her for a few more moments, then hands the knife over, his eyes hard and measuring. Bela thanks him and makes the necessary nicks in her arm, proving she's not a silver-vulnerable monster (which is, fortunately, most of them). When she passes the knife back to him, he whips out a canteen of holy water and splashes the contents in her face. "I already said I'm not a demon," she says, frowning. "Unless you're trying to tell me I need a shower."

He draws back, and his expression is different now, more accepting. "You look like a goddamn mess," he says at last.

_Oh yeah._  There's the oversized men's jacket, the unwashed hair. And the fact that she just recently crawled out of her own grave. "Well, I've sort of been dead a while," she concedes.

"Yeah," Bobby says. "Which is why this can't be you. You _died_ , Bela. You were ripped to pieces by those hellhounds. We – we barely had enough left of you to bury. You and Dean both..." The old man's face creases with long-suppressed grief. Bela tries not to sound as shocked as she feels.

" _You_ buried me?"

"Yeah," Bobby says, wiping his brow with a handkerchief. "Well – Sam did, anyway. Tracked you down and everything. Honestly, I think the boy had a thing for you. Although I'll never understand why he did," he adds darkly.

Bela's throat goes dry. "You have to help me, Bobby."

"Even if you're not a monster, you're still a murderer and a thief. You won't be getting any help from me, so I suggest you get the hell off my property."

"Bobby. _Please._ Don't you want to know how I got out of hell? What if there was a way for Dean to escape, too?" Desperation drives her to go for the low-hanging fruit. Bobby hesitates, obviously conflicted. Then, with a grunt:

"Get your ass in here, then. And tell me everything."

* * *

 "So you're saying one minute you were in hell, the next you were six feet under? And you have no idea how you could have gotten there?"

"That's about the long and the short of it, yes."

"I'll be shitted." Bobby leans back in his recliner and crosses his arms, disturbed. Bela sucks down the last of the can of beer he'd offered her; she doesn't fancy the taste at all, but her thirst has been a force of nature unto itself for the past few days. She hopes insatiable thirst isn't some permanent side effect of leaving the pit.

"Is it possible that Sam brought me back?" she asks after a long, hesitant moment.

"I haven't spoken to Sam in three months, but I'm still gonna hazard a guess that no, he didn't," Bobby flatly supplies, disabusing her of that notion. "Sam might have liked you, Bela, but there's a list as long as my arm of people he'd sooner see back from the grave than you. And Dean's name tops that list in capital letters covered in pretty pink glitter. No offense."

"None taken." Bela rolls her eyes. "But if Dean and I were buried next to each other, how do we know he didn't cock up a retrieval spell or something? Nabbed the wrong person?" Her eyes narrow. "Where _is_ Sam, anyway?"

"I haven't the foggiest. Like I said, kid hasn't answered his phone all summer. He was real torn up about Dean, you understand." Bobby pinches the bridge of his nose like some long-suffering parent. It's a cute image and Bela pushes down a smile. "Honestly, I hope to hell that he didn't have anything to do with this. It would mean he got himself into some really deep shit – witchcraft or worse. It's bad enough that he can't let go of his brother, but to put himself at risk only to wind up saving _you_ , of all people – "

Bela's mouth works soundlessly for a moment. She knows she can't blame Bobby for his open disdain. He doesn't know the whole story behind her demon deal, and she _did_ try to kill the two people in the world closest to him. Still, it hurts. She didn't think it would since she became Bela Talbot again, but it does. "You don't think Dean can be saved?" she mutters.

"If anyone deserved saving, it was that boy," he says with a shake of his head. "If someone thought it was a good idea to hand you a get-out-of-hell-free card, then maybe – and that's a big maybe – there's a chance for Dean."

"What's your honest opinion? Give it to me straight."

He glowers at her. "Honestly? I think it was a real powerful demon brought you back. Probably the reason you have that cattle-brand mark on your shoulder. It made some kind of claim on you. And at some point, it's gonna be coming 'round to demand its pound of flesh, in which case this whole thing becomes our problem anyway. Only reason I haven't thrown you out of here, in fact."

There's a beat of silence. "Can't bloody well complain, I guess. Since you _have_ agreed to help me." She rises out of her chair, suddenly feeling like she wants to crawl out of her own skin. "I'm taking a shower. I think I deserve at least that degree of courtesy," she announces, but Bobby stops her with a look.

"Look, there's something I need to know. When you were in the pit – " He swallows hard, moistens his lips. "Did you ever... see Dean?"

Bela sobers. "No. Never."

"Never heard any talk down there, never – "

"No."

"All right, then." She can't tell if Bobby sounds disappointed or relieved. "Go ahead and use the shower. I'm gonna try leaving Sam a message. Maybe he'll actually pick up when he hears the news. And no funny business, you hear? I'll _know_ if any of my crap goes missing."

"Wouldn't dream of it." 

* * *

When Bela comes out of the shower forty minutes later – she could have easily stayed in for twice that length, trying to scrub off that fucking handprint, but she doesn't want the grumpy old duffer pounding on her door and complaining about wasted water – Bobby has news for her.

"Well, Sam finally called back," he tells her, and the expression on his face gives her pause. "And, funny thing is... _he's_ been in Pontiac, Illinois too. Has been since Thursday." Bela arches an eyebrow in surprise.

"That's around the time I was sprung. So, did he – "

"He won't admit to anything." Bobby looks genuinely painstricken, as if the possibility of losing his second adoptive son looms heavy on the horizon. Bela has the bizarre urge to go and put a hand on his shoulder, although she's well aware that would likely result in losing her arm. "God, I just hope he didn't make a demon deal. He swears up and down he didn't, but..."

"I hope he didn't either," Bela says honestly. "That'd be a tall order for me, trying to get him out of it."

Bobby snorts. "Like you'd ever repay a debt."

"I always repay my debts." Bela gives him an appraising look. "Flagstaff, Arizona, remember? We never really talked about that."

He shrugs. "I gave you a good deal on an amulet. Not much to talk about there."

"You gave it to me practically for free. You didn't know it then, but having that amulet in my possession saved my life." She's telling the truth; back then she'd gotten into a spot of trouble with a powerful buyer, and needed to make use of the amulet's amnesiac properties to extricate herself. Bela forces herself not to look away, but it's a hard thing. "I, um. I always appreciated it."

"You're thanking me." It's a statement, not a question. "You _sure_ you're Bela Talbot?"

"Reasonably certain," she returns with a smile. "The point is, I _do_ have a moral code, of sorts. I stayed for the whole dream root business so I could reward your assistance."

"Yeah, and steal the Colt."

"Details." Bela gives a pretty little shrug and changes the subject. "So will the darlingest Winchester be making his way here, then?"

"Naturally. This is something he's got to see with his own eyes." Bobby gives an unamused grin and clenches his fist. "But not before I give him a good tongue-lashing. Boy doesn't get to just act like a reckless jackass all summer and get away with it." 

* * *

Sam arrives around late morning the next day. Even after forty years of hell, Bela still remembers the sound the Impala makes as it's rumbling over loose rocks and dirt, and it draws her out of a nightmare in which she's sinking the knife into her father's guts over and over, only to have a strong arm framed in light take it away from her. She sits up in the seat of her stolen car – she'd elected to sleep out back in the junkyard, to give Bobby some peace of mind – and yawns hugely. Sam is getting out of the car now, all long limbs and self-conscious posture (and a new, noticeable pall that darkens his once-cheerful face), and Bobby comes out to greet him. She crawls over to the window and watches the family reunion transpire through half-lidded eyes.

"Sorry I'm late," Sam says, not noticing how Bobby approaches him in a manner bordering on stalking. "I was tracking some demons out of Tennessee and had to take care of – "

"I've half a mind to punch the stupid right out of your head," Bobby growls, and before Sam can launch into a series of heartfelt apologies, he sweeps the boy into a fierce embrace. "Ya goddamn idjit, you couldn't have called me _once_?"

"I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm so sorry for keeping you waiting and worrying like that. I just... after Dean..." Sam trembles and Bobby hugs him tighter. "I just got lost. I miss him so much."

"I know you do, son. We both do. But you can't abandon the only family you got left."

"I know that now. I'm sorry." Sam extricates himself and pegs him with a wary expression. "Where is she?" he says, in a lower voice.

" _She_ is over here, Sam." Bela slams the car door shut behind her, hoping she doesn't look as exhausted as she feels. "And might I add, that display was simply _marvelous._ Touched me right here." She taps her heart and tips a saucy wink at the younger Winchester, who regards her with an expression that is equal parts pity, amazement, and revulsion.

"Charming as ever. I guess we don't have to wonder whether or not you're the real deal. Now according to Bobby, someone sprung you from the pit, but you don't know how it went down or who did it?"

Bela nods, appreciating Sam's lack of interest in pleasantries, even though she knows it comes from a place of dislike as much as pragmatism. Bobby leads them into the house and has them sitting in chairs with drinks in a matter of minutes.

"Well, lucky for you I followed up on some leads. Turns out there are a lot of people looking for you, Bela. A lot of _demons_." Sam pauses, as if to make his next words that much more emphatic. "And they are scared shitless."

Bobby's face is ashen. "You're telling me the thing that got Bela has even the people _downstairs_ running for cover?"

"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "After I got your call, I went to go pump those demons I was tracking for information. They were hiding in plain sight, in a diner in Pontiac. Now, I couldn't get them to tell me exactly _what_ Bela's mystery rescuer was, but it was simple enough to get the creature's name." He pauses again, and this time it's not for emphasis, but just so he'll have a chance to catch his breath, which has grown shallow and trembling. "Every demon in the restaurant was dead when I got there – all but one. None of them had a single scratch on them... but their eyes had been burned right out of their sockets. The one surviving demon kept muttering a name, over and over."

"And what name was that?" Bela asks in a tight whisper.

Sam looks at her. "Castiel."

There is a long and pregnant silence as they consider this. The name means nothing to them but it still sounds ominous.

"Maybe it's not the same thing that saved me," Bela finally says, but Sam is quick to contradict her.

"No, it is," he replies. "Before it died, the demon told me that a powerful creature had just been downstairs, and the same thing had happened there. Bright light, eyes melting out of skulls, the whole nine yards. Whatever this thing is, it's extremely dangerous. _It can kill just by being seen_." Sam's eyes dart away at one point while he's saying this – just for a fraction of a second – and Bela is suddenly convinced he's lying. Not about the information he got, but about _who_ gave it to him. That makes about as much sense as anything else – which is to say, none – but she can't be arsed to untangle the hot mess that is Sam Winchester's mind.

"And seeing as how it took Bela out of hell, I'm guessing it wasn't exactly for a good cause," Bobby grumbles.

"Yeah," Sam concurs with a nod, "but you see, that's the problem. What's this thing's motivation? Obviously it's not aligned with the demons, or it wouldn't be barbecuing them left and right. What does it _want_?"

Another long silence.

"Maybe it's after Lilith," Bobby suggests. Bela looks at him.

"And what would it want with her?"

Bobby throws up his hands. "Who knows why monsters want anything? But if it's got a bone to pick with Lilith, it would at least explain why it took someone she'd duped into dealing. Maybe rescuing one of Lilith's conquests was an elaborate way of saying _screw you_ , and Bela just happened to be the lucky girl who got dragged along for the ride."

"Hurrah for me," Bela mutters.

Sam looks skeptical. "Seems like a lot of trouble to go to just to say _screw you_."

Bela stands up, suddenly impatient to be done with this discussion. They won't get an inch closer to understanding what's going on, unless – "Could we please cease with the theories already and just _ask_ it what it wants?" she growls.

Bobby and Sam look at her as if she's grown a second head. "And how do you suggest we do that?" Sam asks.

" _Please_." Bela rolls her eyes. "Don't insult me. I've spent the last ten years doing my homework. I know how to summon a supernatural creature as well as either of you. Maybe even better. And now we have a name to go on."

"That is a terrible idea," Sam says, his face as impassive as stone. "The best thing to do right now is sit and wait – "

"Screw sitting around on our arses. I was ready for this to be done two days ago. I won't wait another minute if I don't have to."

"Well, you have fun summoning the scary monster by yourself then," Bobby says, "because we won't be joining you."

"Really? Not even to get Dean back?"

That brings them both up short. They stare at her with uncertain eyes.

"Think about it. We summon the creature, and if it's not hostile, we can maybe strike a deal to have it go back for Dean. If it _is_ hostile, well... we'll take precautionary measures. I know tons of lore that you've never even dreamed of, just as I'm sure you have your own unique library of binding spells and dominion words and whatever else is in those dusty books of yours. Between the three of us, we could have this Castiel whipped."

"You left out just one thing," Bobby says. "The part where it can _burn people's eyes out_."

"We'll just have to close them then, won't we?"

Sam's voice is flat. "You're insane."

"So I've been told." Bela is unconcerned. "Besides, you want that bitch as bad as anyone, don't you, Sam? I mean, she's the reason Dean became a hellhound's chew toy." Sam's eyes widen with outrage at her tactless wording, but she's on a roll now – as she usually is when she gets to scheming. Her eyes glitter with excitement. "Maybe we could even work with Castiel to take Lilith down, once and for all. Now _that's_ a cause I could get behind."

"Look. I want to save Dean as bad anyone." Bobby's eyes are hard-set in his face, and he's started to adopt an _I'm-older-and-smarter-than-you-so-you'd-better-just-shut-up-and-listen-to-me_ tone. "But I don't think that means we should be playing with fire. Maybe we could get this demon-smiter to deal... and maybe it would be a million times worse than anything we've ever gotten into with a demon. You really wanna take that chance?"

"You talk as if I don't know what's at stake. I was in _hell_ , Bobby. An experience I've noted neither of you have cared enough to ask me about." She's being openly manipulative now and knows it – and most likely Sam and Bobby know it, too – but the gambit succeeds; neither of them can look her in the eye now. Her voice drops an octave as she confesses, with a pure and unconscious honesty: "Even if Castiel sliced me apart piece by piece, I would still welcome it over one second in the pit."

They're silent for long moments. "I need to sleep on it," Sam says at length, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. "This is just too much to take in, right now."

"No. We do it tonight or not at all."

"What the hell is the hurry?"

Bela glares at him. Is it just impossible that hunters could ever consider anyone else's circumstances but their own? "You just said demons were after me. The more time I spend wandering around in the dark, the more vulnerable I am to getting killed or dragged back to hell."

"No demon is going to do that," Bobby points out. "Not if they're as scared as Sam says they are."

"There are as many stupid demons as there are humans. I'm not taking any chances." Bela throws on her army jacket and heads for the door. "There's an empty lot of warehouses I passed back on I-90 coming here. You can either meet me there tonight to do the ritual, or..." She shrugs, like it doesn't much matter to her one way or the other; but in fact it's only her pride that bars her from begging them to come with her. As proficient as she is with runes and spells and devil's traps, the new information she's been given about this thing – this Castiel – greatly frightens her, and she'll need as many safeguards as she can possibly conceive. Her intelligence hadn't saved her from the hellhounds, after all.

She pauses with her fingers still on the doorknob. Suddenly appearing very interested in the stainwork on the wood, she adds: "Listen, whether you want to come with me or not... I appreciate all the help you've given me. Really."

She doesn't see, but _feels_ Sam's goggle-eyed stare. "Did you... did you just _thank_ us?" he asks.

"You should have seen her earlier," Bobby says, with an amusement that's almost warm. "She was thanking me for what happened in _Flagstaff_. And all I did there was sell her an _amulet_."

"Is it really so impossible that I should want to express gratitude to someone who's helped me?" Bela says, turning around in exasperation; but when she's met by one of Sam's arsenal of incisive stares – eyes narrowed to slits and brow tightly drawn, clearly broadcasting the words _bitch, please_ – she sighs and concedes the point. "The fact of the matter is, Bobby didn't have to take me in, and Sam didn't have to drive for eight hours just to give me a lead. I know neither of you were operating solely out of the goodness of your hearts, but still – thank you."

They continue to stare at her and she quickly turns around, practically races out the door to avoid revealing the high color blooming in her cheeks.

* * *

Bela finishes setting up the tools required for the summoning ritual on the crate, one of a number that she's pushed into a corner of the warehouse's generous space. Every conceivable defense measure has been taken, but she still feels defenseless and exposed. The warehouse is cold and she retreats further into the depths of her army jacket. The entire arrangement seems ominous – mad, even – but she tells herself it's just natural to feel that way when you're sitting by yourself in a warehouse at night surrounded by occult effects. Still, she wishes she had her old tarot cards on her. At least that way she'd know for sure, whether it's for good or for ill, the outcome of this risky endeavor. With her thoughts thus drawn to the very real possibility of her death, Bela thinks of her Siamese cat Hyzenthlay, whom she'd left back in her flat in Queens. The landlady, another Brit and a woman after her own heart, knew Bela was involved in some shady affairs, and had agreed to take the cat into her possession in the event that her tenant disappeared. _A good thing I didn't come back to claim her, if I'm just going to die all over again..._

She hears a door open nearby, startling her out of her thoughts, but relaxes when she sees it's only Sam. "Bela," he says, closing the distance between them, and she notices he's brought a toolbox with him. He places it on the floor and opens it to reveal a cache of supernatural weapons.

"So, you decided to take me up on my proposal." Bela tries not to sound relieved. She looks behind Sam, but Bobby isn't there. "I'm surprised the old man is letting you do this."

"Bobby doesn't know I'm here." Sam kneels down on the floor next to the toolbox and studies Bela's handiwork, then adds a few more sigils with a flourish of spray paint. "I just... I don't know. I need to know. I need to know if I can save Dean. Castiel's the last hope I've got." He carefully avoids making eye contact while he's talking, as if the task requires all of his attention. Bela decides to leave him to it and seats herself on a crate, crossing and uncrossing her legs with growing agitation.

Sam is silent for long moments as he works. "I don't understand why it wasn't him," he finally says, and his voice is stilted and tinny, like he's speaking a line rehearsed from a play.

"Pardon?"

"I don't understand," Sam repeats. "Why you were saved and not Dean."

Bela falls silent. So, they're coming around to that now. It's a question she's asked herself enough times as well, and not one that she's any more equipped to answer, although Sam would understandably have some choice opinions on the matter. He goes over and sits on the crate next to her, and she finds his sudden nearness uncomfortable.

"What? No smart remarks? No reminders that Dean and I are a couple of sociopaths, that we're no better than you? Doesn't sound like the Bela I know."

He's growing visibly upset, she can see that. A pressure-cooker combo of emotions – a summer's worth of bitterness and frustration – is boiling to the surface of Sam Winchester's mind, throwing a pall over his normally gentle and forgiving nature. _It's been a long time coming, and I'm about to get both barrels_ , Bela thinks. "And who is the Bela you know?" she asks in a near-whisper, hating herself for provoking him like this, for being weak enough now to feel that she _needs_ to know what other people think of her, that somehow it _matters._

Sam grins at her. It looks distorted and wrong on his face. "Oh, that's easy. The Bela I know is selfish, arrogant, dishonest, and 'can't be bothered to give a damn.' Exactly the kind of person who would end up in hell. Tell me, am I getting warm?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"What do you _think_ I'm trying to say?" Sam thunders. "You're a murderer, Bela! It's bad enough that you were willing to kill me to get yourself off Lilith's hook, but killing _Dean_? What the hell did he do to deserve that? Not to mention, you already knew he had his own deal that was coming due! You were willing to send him to hell ahead of schedule on the remote chance that it would actually help save your own pitiful little life!" A medley of emotions plays out across his features now, warring for dominance: rage, sorrow, despair. "For God's sake, you even murdered your own parents! And for what? For _money_?!" He slams his fist down on the crate next to her and she jumps; when he pulls his fingers away they're bleeding, stuck through with splinters. "I'm saying that you didn't _deserve_ to come back, okay, Bela? _It should have been him_!" A dry sob escapes his throat and he slumps forward, his physical appearance comporting with the role of little brother for the first time. "It should have been him," he repeats, more brokenly.

"I don't know what to tell you, Sam." Bela tries to still her shaking shoulders, exhales a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She speaks in steady, careful tones – as much to pacify his anger against her as to reach out to him in understanding. "I mean... you're exactly right, of course. I _did_ try to kill you and your brother. I never wanted to do it, but the clock was running down and I was desperate. That's not an excuse, I know, just an explanation, and I don't ever ask that you take it as the former. As for my parents – " She stops. If that particular sob story was one that she'd ever actually be willing to share, she would have let Bobby know the first time he'd been a git to her. It is a chapter of her life that she left behind long ago, even if its central figures went on to torture her in perdition; and so the door, thus closed, will remain forever so. All she will allow is: "I didn't mean to kill them, but I'm not sorry it happened, either."

Sam says nothing at all, staring into space. She wonders if she's even listening to her, or if she's just twisting in the wind, speaking nonsense and trying to convince some invisible eavesdropper – or herself – that she isn't a monster.

"For what it's worth, I don't think I deserved to come back, either. And I... I want you to know that I'm sorry."

He turns to her, glowering, his eyes wet and red. "I don't want your apology. I want my brother."

A gruff voice interjects at that moment, and a man's silhouette moves into the doorway. "Am I interrupting you lovebirds?"

"Bobby," Sam breathes. All the tension floods from his face, and quickly he wipes at his eyes. Bela leans forward, feigning surprise at the old man's arrival, but really it's just a show meant to draw his attention away long enough for Sam to pull himself together. "Decided to join us then, you old codger?" she chirps, and Bobby scowls at her before stomping over to Sam, looking for all the world like a volcano about to explode.

"You really thought you could get one over on me? Just how stupid do you think I am, Sam?" Sam slumps down even further in his seat, not meeting Bobby's gaze, and his adoptive father exploits the temporary height advantage to tower over him. "It's one thing if _Bela_ wants to get herself killed, but I don't need _you_ drinking the Kool-Aid along with her!"

"Your concern is so touching," Bela remarks.

"Go home, Bobby," Sam says.

"Like hell I'm going home! Someone's got to look after you. You really think that after losing Dean, I'm gonna let _you_ slip through my fingers too?"

Sam throws up his hands. "It's because of Dean that I'm doing this!" he says, naked frustration evident in his voice. "What else do you want me to say? I'm not going anywhere, so you might as well get out of here and live to hunt another day."

"I'm starting to think you don't understand the meaning of the word _family_." Bobby's rejoinder is low, disappointed. "I'm not so dumb that I'd come running over here without protection, either." He lifts his vest to reveal a shotgun, along with a couple of pistols, some wooden stakes, an iron crowbar, a capsule of holy water, a handful of baubles carved with protection runes, and a bag containing what looks like an honest-to-God shrunken head. He looks like a military survivalist, Bela thinks, albeit a very superstitious military survivalist. "And I'll be damned if those aren't the most amateurish protection sigils I've ever seen," he adds sullenly, stepping around the assortment of patterns like they might be dog dung. "There are eleven major world religions, and I only see maybe four represented here. Are you two chuckleheads _asking_ to be caught with your pants down?"

Bela laughs openly at that, while Sam glares. "Always good to hear from an expert," she says, still chuckling, marveling at the warmth that blossoms in her chest like a shot of whiskey, moments away from what could possibly be her last night on earth. Even if she'll never be a part of the Winchester-Singer family – even if neither party much cares if she lives or dies – simply being able to hover around the edges like she has is enough to confer good feelings upon her. It's highly similar to the way she felt engaging with the Winchesters, back in the old days. Then she sobers, remembering Sam's grief, and while Bobby's stooped down correcting their egregious errors, she dares to sneak a peek at him. Sam looks back at her, still favoring her with that smoldering look, but he doesn't say anything, and after a moment he turns away.

When Bobby finally steps away from the plethora of patterns and symbols, apparently satisfied, the final result looks like something out of a community art initiative. "There," he says, crossing his arms. "Now we've got something amounting to a decent defense." He gives each of them a talisman. "Don't know how much good these will do, but I figure they can't hurt." To Bela, he says: "It's probably pointless to ask this, but you wouldn't still happen to have the Colt on you, would you? It'd be nice if we had at least _one_ ace up our sleeve."

"I gave it one of Lilith's middlemen. Oh, don't give me that look. How was I supposed to know we'd be doing this?" Bela leans over the assortment of summoning tools and lights a candle. "Are we ready to call on Cthulhu, then?"

Bobby shivers. "Ready as we'll ever be, I guess. And I wouldn't joke about Lovecraft if I were you. I'm still not entirely sure he wasn't on to something when he wrote about the Great Old Ones."

"Sorry." She recites the Latin chant, mixing a small amount of predrawn blood in a bowl, along with a pinch of powder assorted from ingredients she once found in a witch's grimoire she'd sold off to a client. The concoction begins to exude an oily smoke, which she fans away with one hand. She continues chanting in Latin, invoking Castiel's name several times, feeling gooseflesh break out all along her body. When her voice begins to warble towards the end, she realizes she's terrified. Sam and Bobby don't look much better, each man holding his weapon to his breast like a lover. At the chant's conclusion she turns and stares at them, her expression unashamedly naked, her eyes wide in her face.

Nothing happens for several moments, and for some reason that makes it even worse. The silence is complete, the only conspicuous things to be seen their own shadows stretching on the far wall. "Are you sure you didn't leave anything out?" Sam asks, in a voice that's unconsciously subdued.

"No," Bobby says grimly. "She did it right. But I don't like it, all the same. If that thing's powerful enough to ignore a _summons_ – "

Fate chooses that moment to intervene, and the overhead lights flicker violently, raining down sparks and making them all jump. Sam and Bobby raise their weapons to their shoulders, and Bela takes a step back into the relative safety of a salt circle, drawing a bead with her own pistol – on _what_ , she doesn't know, it's so hard to see in the failing light. A human-shaped shadow approaches from the rear of the warehouse, and there's a collective gasp as they all realize that half the wall over there is gone – not torn down, but _gone_ , like it'd never existed to begin with. A draft of cool night air rushes in, and without a moment's hesitation the shadow starts towards them, its steps purposeful but unhurried.

"Don't move another inch!" Bobby yells out, but the shadow doesn't stop, doesn't even slow down, and he nods to Sam. Through some long-practiced means of nonverbal communication, the two of them begin unleashing their payload in tandem. Dizzying bursts of light – followed by the explosive sounds of discharged firearms – rent the air, throwing the already chaotic scene into even deeper confusion. Bobby's shotgun gives up the ghost first, depleted of rock salt, and he switches to the pistols. Fifteen seconds later and both of them are spent; fifteen more, and Sam's last weapon, a semi-automatic Beretta, is firing dry. With thirty seconds elapsed, neither of them have time to reload their guns. Instead they switch to their backup plan: spoken spells and incantations, thrown across the room like live grenades. These, however, prove equally useless. The shadow is still coming on, its features resolving into those of a man now. It passes over the traps Bobby had laid out just minutes before, seeming not even to notice them, its gaze pointed straight ahead, straight at _Bela_.

To Bela's complete surprise, instead of dropping everything and getting the fuck out of there, Bobby leaps to her defense. "Run, girl!" he cries, charging at the man, wielding his iron crowbar like a sword. Bela feels she's ready to do just that – with or without Bobby's prompting, her fight-or-flight instincts are in full, screaming engagement – but she can't move. The only action available to her seems to be watching helplessly as the old man is seized by the wrist _(and surely her own wrist had been seized like that, once before?)_ and his entire body goes limp, his eyes fluttering closed as he crashes to the floor. With a scream of rage, Sam falls upon the man with the demon-killing knife, plunges it hilt-deep into his chest.

The resulting wound doesn't exhibit even a hint of blood, and the expression on the man's face suggests mild inconvenience rather than mortal agony. Before Sam can fully register that this creature is indeed far worse than anything they've ever dealt with, he's blown back on his heels into the far wall, seemingly by the force of the man's stare. He struggles to get up, but it's clear by the unnatural twist of his leg that he has broken several bones. When he extends his arm and begins muttering under his breath – Bela can only assume that it's the beginning of an exorcism chant – the man responds by flinging out his own arm, exerting an invisible power of such swift brutality that Sam screams and collapses. He's left conscious, but just barely. The man pulls out the knife and drops it to the floor, sparing it not a single glance, and continues on his way. His eyes shine out at Bela in the darkness: a pale, piercing blue.

It's at this point that Bela remembers that she also has a gun. She squeezes the trigger – once, twice, thrice – and while each shot is true, it's to no avail. They're as harmless as tennis balls bouncing off an army tanker, ants laying siege to a fortress. She tries to recall the power words she'd memorized before starting this insane venture, but they seem to have fallen out of her head entirely. Meanwhile the man – _Castiel_ – continues walking through devil's traps and binding sigils like they're nothing, getting closer all the time, and there's nothing she can do to stop it, _nothing_ –

She falls upon her final defense, not a defense at all: closing her eyes. She remembers the crack she made to Bobby and Sam earlier, the words a cruel echo in her head, and there's nothing remotely funny about them now. She can't bear to have those eyes turned upon her, dissecting her inside the space of a few blinks. Her fingers tighten around the pistol grip, tremble spasmodically. She doesn't need to see to know when Castiel is right in front of her, the tips of his shoes toeing the line of salt.

"If you're here to kill me, then kill me," she says, prepared for a repeat performance with the hellhounds and only hoping it doesn't hurt as much this time. "Just please don't take me back to hell."

"I'm not here to hurt you." His voice is deep and sonorous; his words, achingly familiar. "Look at me, Bela."

Knowing it's pointless to resist him, she does. The person who stares back at her is not at all whom she had expected to see. Castiel is a thirtysomething man of average height, slightly unshaven. He wears the suit of a businessman – perhaps it belonged to a tax accountant or a salesman – and, layered over that, a beige trenchcoat, lending him a highly incongruous appearance, especially when combined with his messy dark hair. He regards her with an expression of utter solemnity. There is the suggestion of a squint in his eyes, like he can't see all that well, but somehow Bela knows that's not true; knows that, were he free to reign in his own element, he would be able to see so well that nothing about reality – not a single atom or mite or molecule – would remain shadowed from him. _Just as if he had thousands of eyes –_

She doesn't know what brings that thought up but she pushes it down. Castiel's stare intensifies, his mouth pulling down in a frown. He seems disappointed.

"What?" Her lip is trembling and she has to bite down to keep it still.

"You don't remember me." Castiel continues to study her with his eyes, as if he might find in her face the answer to some question. "I'm not really surprised. It can take several palavers with a creature of my extra-spatial dimensions before a human is able to consciously recall me... but I could tell right away. You have a natural talent for perceiving the ineffable. I thought you might be a singularity."

For being such a terrifying creature, he's not very good at making sense. Bela stares. "I don't understand what you're talking about," she confesses lamely.

"The last time I saw you, you were insistent that your name was Bee. It seems to have been the name that Alastair and your torturers bestowed upon you. Your memories were confused. I restored them."

From what seems like another planet entirely – in reality only a few feet away – she senses movement from Sam. She doesn't dare tear her eyes away from Castiel, but she can sense him crawling towards Bobby, maneuvering on his good leg. "What the hell is he talking about, Bela?" he demands, his voice colored with outrage. "You actually _know_ this thing?"

"N – _no_! That was... a dream..." And on the heels of that: _A dream? A dream of_ _ **what?**_ She looks wildly at Castiel, and he _(It)_ looks back at her with terrible, implacable calm; and as she tries frantically to parse the memories retreating to the recesses of her mind like roaches from the light of a torch, he turns to address Sam.

"I would appreciate it if you did not call me a _thing,_ Sam Winchester. I understand it has negative connotations in your language." Sam falls silent, stunned that the creature knows his name, and he turns back to Bela with utter unconcern. "And yes, Bela and I have met before. I didn't really explain myself to you back then. I thought you might find it easier to talk to me in my human vessel." He exhales softly, a long-suffering messenger. "I'm an angel of the Lord."

For about ten seconds no one says anything at all. Then: "What?" Bela mutters weakly.

"I'm an angel. The one who gripped you tight, and raised you from eternal punishment."

_Gripped you tight._ Bela's voice breaks. "The handprint."

"Yes. My Grace burned into you as I was returning you to this plane. That mark will never come off." Something in his expression softens then, and he takes another step towards her, transgressing the boundary of the salt line. (And yes, there can be no doubt now who he is: she can feel the power burning off of him like a thousand-watt generator, along with his attempts to push it down, because there's simply too much of him, of _It_ , to contain.) His fingers, long and elegant, reach out as if to cup her face, and it's only then she realizes she's been crying since the moment she saw him, the tears streaking down her cheeks like track lines. The memory of talons opening to enfold her hits her with such violent force that she almost stumbles and falls.

She shakes the gun at him when his fingers are still inches from her face. "Don't touch me," she says in a broken whisper. He withdraws his hand without speaking. Then, before she can stop herself: "You're not an angel. Why would an angel want to rescue me from hell? Do you even know what I was there for?" Sam's words to her could not be more relevant than they are right now.

He looks at her with such obvious confusion and sadness that she can feel her heart – sluggish, long-disused thing that it is – breaking in two. "You don't think you deserve to be saved?" he says, in a voice so softly textured that she feels she could lie on it like a pillow.

"I would think," she says through a spate of fresh tears, "that the answer would be obvious."

"It wasn't your fault." There are a million different things he could be referring to by that, and somehow she thinks he means all of them. She trembles. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I don't need you to tell me that."

"And yet, no one ever has."

"It still doesn't mean I should be saved."

He tilts his head. "You desire forgiveness, and yet you run from it. I find that odd."

"Don't feed me that rubbish. You think I want your pity? I don't."

"Pity and forgiveness are not the same thing."

Bela swallows hard. "Not in my experience." She wishes he would stop talking. At the same time, she doesn't ever want him to stop; wants him to keep telling her beautiful lies in that beautiful voice. "I wouldn't want your forgiveness, either."

"You misunderstand. This isn't about what either of us want. This was a mandate of God." The self-assured expression slides back on his face, cold and frightening, and a shadow – drawn in the shape of two dark wings – flashes briefly against the wall behind him. With any lingering confusion about his celestial purpose thus burned away, Bela beholds him in the manner in which angels were originally perceived: as soldiers of indescribable power, messengers of unbelievable awe. _The Presence._ "It was His will that you should be saved, Bela Talbot. You were judged to be the Righteous One. And when Lilith's war comes to fruition upon the earth, you will be the most valuable ally the angels have."

She doesn't know it now, but they are words that will alter the trajectory of their lives – _all_ their lives – forever.


End file.
